“Yes, yes. And you, sir, are…?”

“Gerhard Klemp. I am the manager and have been for sixteen years.”

“Did this man eat lunch here yesterday?”

“Please, yes, he did. And almost three days a week. He first came in several months ago. He said he liked it because we prepare more than just German food.”

Kohl wanted the boys to know as little about the murder as possible so he said to his son and the Hitler Youths, “Ah, thank you, son. Thank you, Helmut.” He nodded to the others. “We will take over from here. You’re a credit to your nation.”

“I would do anything for our Leader, Detective-inspector,” Helmut said in a tone fitting to his declaration. “Good day, sir.” Again he lifted his arm. Kohl watched his son’s arm extend similarly and, in response, the inspector himself gave a sharp National Socialist salute. “Hail.” Kohl ignored Janssen’s faint look of amusement at his gesture.

The youngsters left, chattering and laughing; they seemed normal for a change, boyish and happy, free from their usual visage – mindless automatons out of Fritz Lang’s science fiction film Metropolis. He caught his son’s eye and the boy smiled and waved as the cluster disappeared out the door. Kohl prayed his decision on his son’s behalf was not a mistake; Günter could so easily be seduced by the group.

He turned back to Klemp and tapped the picture. “What time did he lunch here yesterday?”

“He came in early, about eleven, just as we were opening. He left thirty, forty minutes later.”

Kohl could see that Klemp was troubled by the death but reluctant to express sympathy in case the man turned out to be an enemy of the state. He was also very curious but, as with most citizens these days, was afraid to ask questions about the investigation or to volunteer anything more than he was asked. At least he didn’t suffer from blindness.

“Was he alone?”

“Yes.”

Janssen asked, “But did you happen to observe him outside to see if he arrived with anyone or perhaps met someone when he left?” He nodded toward the restaurant’s large, uncurtained windows.

“I didn’t see anyone, no.”

“Were there persons he dined with regularly?”

“No. He was usually by himself.”

“And which way did he go after he finished eating yesterday?” Kohl asked, jotting it all down in his notebook after touching the pencil tip to his tongue.

“I believe to the south. That would be the left.”

The direction of Dresden Alley.

“What do you know about him?” Kohl asked.

“Ach, a few things. For one, I have his address, if that helps.”

“Indeed it does,” said Kohl excitedly.

“After he began coming here regularly I suggested he open an account with us.” He turned to a file box containing neatly penned cards and wrote down an address on a slip of paper. Janssen looked at it. “Two blocks from here, sir.”

“Do you know anything else about him?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. He was secretive. We spoke rarely. It wasn’t the language. No, it was his preoccupation. He was usually reading the newspaper or a book or business documents and didn’t wish to converse.”

“What do you mean by ‘it wasn’t the language’?”

“Oh, he was an American.”

Kohl lifted an eyebrow at Janssen. “He was?”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied, glancing once more at the picture of the dead man.

“And his name?”

“Mr. Reginald Morgan, sir.”

“And you are who?”

Robert Taggert held up a cautionary finger in response to Reinhard Ernst’s question, then looked carefully out the window Ernst had been standing at when Taggert had tackled the colonel a moment before to get him out of the line of sight of the shed, where Paul Schumann was waiting.

Taggert caught a glimpse of the black doorway in the shed and could vaguely make out the muzzle of the Mauser easing back and forth.

“No one go outside!” Taggert called to the workers. “Keep away from the windows and the doors!” He turned back to Ernst, who sat on a box containing cans of paint. Several of the laborers had helped him up from the floor and stood nearby.

Taggert had been late arriving at the stadium. Driving the white van, he’d had to circle far to the north and west to make certain Schumann didn’t see him. After flashing his identity cards to the guards, he had run up the stairs to the press floor to find Ernst pausing in front of the window. The construction noise was loud and the colonel hadn’t heard his shout over the screams of the power saws. So the American had sprinted down the hall past a dozen or so astonished workers and knocked Ernst away from the window.

The colonel was cradling his head, which had struck the tarpaulin-covered floor. There was no blood on his scalp, and he didn’t seem badly hurt, though Taggert’s tackle had stunned him and knocked the wind from his lungs.

Responding to Ernst’s question, Taggert said, “I’m with the American diplomatic staff in Washington, D.C.” He proffered his papers: a government identification card and an authentic American passport issued in his real name, not the forgery in the name of Reginald Morgan – the Office of Naval Intelligence agent he’d shot to death in front of Paul Schumann in Dresden Alley yesterday and had been impersonating ever since.

Taggert said, “I’ve come here to warn you about a plot against your life. An assassin is outside now.”

“But Krupp… Is Baron von Bohlen involved?”

“Krupp?” Taggert feigned surprise and listened as Ernst explained about the phone call.

“No, that must have been one of the conspirators, who called to lure you out.” He gestured out the door. “The killer is in one of the supply sheds south of the stadium. We’ve heard he’s a Russian but dressed in an SS uniform.”

“A Russian? Yes, yes, there was a security alert about such a man.”

In fact, there would have been no danger had Ernst stayed at the window or stepped out onto the porch. The rifle that Schumann now held was the same one he’d tested at November 1923 Square yesterday but last night Taggert had plugged the barrel of the gun with lead so that if Schumann had fired, the bullet never would have left the muzzle. Yet had that happened, the American gangster would have known he’d been set up and might have escaped, even if he’d been injured by the exploding rifle.

“Our Leader could be in danger!”

“No,” Taggert said. “It’s only you he’s after.”

“Me?…” Then Ernst’s head swiveled. “My grandson!” He rose abruptly. “My grandson is here. He could be at risk too.”

“We have to tell everyone to stay away from the windows,” Taggert said, “and to evacuate the area.” The two men hurried down the hallway. “Is Hitler in the pressroom?” Taggert asked.

“He was a few minutes ago.”

Oh, this was far better than Taggert could have hoped for. When Schumann had reported, back in the boardinghouse, that Hitler and the other leaders would be assembled here, he’d been ecstatic, though he’d obscured this reaction, of course. He now said, “I need to tell him what we’ve learned. We have to act fast before the assassin escapes.”

They walked into the pressroom. The American blinked, stunned to find himself among the most powerful men in Germany, their heads turning to look at him in curiosity. The only ones in the room who ignored Taggert were two cheerful German shepherd dogs and a cute little boy of about six or seven.

Adolf Hitler noticed Ernst, still holding the back of his head, the paint and plaster on his suit. Alarmed, he asked, “Reinhard, you are hurt?”

“Opa!” The boy ran forward.

Ernst first put his arms around the child and ushered him quickly to the center of the room away from the doors and windows. “It’s all right, Rudy. I just took a spill… Everyone, keep back from the windows!” He gestured to an SS guard. “Take my grandson into the hallway. Stay with him.”

“Yes, sir.” The man did as ordered.